Page 138 of Shots & Echoes

I knew I should have felt guilty. But I didn't. All I felt was a deep, primal satisfaction.

We tore away from each other, breathless, the air between us still charged from what we’d just done. The taste of her lingered on my tongue, the heat of her body still burned into my skin, but none of it mattered. Not now.

I needed to shove this down. Lock it up. Pretend like I hadn’t just fucked up all over again.

I yanked my gear together in stiff, jerky movements, hyper-aware of the silence stretching between us. No teasing. No smug remarks. Just this unbearable tension—thick and suffocating, like the goddamn walls were closing in.

Iris bent to grab her bag, her hair falling over her shoulder, and before I could stop myself, I reached out.

Brushed it back.

My fingers skimmed over the side of her neck—over the deep, fading mark I’d left on her last night.

And beside it?

A new one.

My stomach twisted.

That wasn’t possession.

That was a fucking target.

Anyone could see it. Anyone could put the pieces together.

Chambers. My dad. The team.

If the wrong person noticed, it wouldn’t just be me getting buried under this—it’d be her, too.

I ripped my hand away like I’d been burned, my pulse hammering against my ribs as I turned from her, my fists clenching so hard I swore my knuckles would split.

What the hell had I done?

I could already hear my dad’s voice echoing in my skull, cold and final:“You’re not just risking your career; you’re risking hers too.”

And he was right.

Because Iris wasn’t just mine anymore.

She was a walking consequence.

And if I didn’t get my shit together?

We were both going to pay for it.

She looked up at me, eyes full of questions I couldn’t fucking answer. Searching for something I couldn’t give. And that truth—the weight of it—twisted in my gut like a blade.

This wasn’t heading anywhere good. We weren’t walking away clean. There was no neat ending, no quiet resolution.

We were already too far gone.

The air between us felt charged, suffocating. A storm waiting to break.

“Iris,” I said, but my voice came out rough, like it hurt to say her name. Because it did.

I wanted to reach for her. Just one last time. Brush my fingers over her jaw, trace the curve of her cheek, wipe away the uncertainty tightening her features.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

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